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to evacuate.
    She reached down and grabbed that jar. It was warm. She wondered what the hell it actually was. She knew what it wasn't. It wasn't a functioning anacapa drive.
    But it might have been a malfunctioning version of it, missing the various pieces that actually made the anacapa work.
    She carried the jar to one of the side rooms and set it inside.
    Then she took one last look around. It hadn't been a bad research station. The station had been well designed and well equipped, although all of the state-of-the-art protections, all of the one-of-a-kind technology couldn't help it now.
    She tapped into the control panel on the wall, looking for heat signatures and individual life tags. Everyone who was supposed to be here was tagged, and should show up on the panel. Everyone who wasn't supposed to be here should show up as a heat signature.
    She was the only heat signature and had the only tag. In a place that normally housed a thousand scientists, she was the only one who remained.
    She let out a small sigh of relief.
    The sirens sounded even louder than they had before, probably because the station was empty. All of the spaceships had left as well, except for her designated evacuation vessel. She opened its systems, checked to make sure it was empty, then shut it down.
    Finally, she punched in an access code, opening previously sealed corridors, then sprinted out the door.
    The androgynous voice accompanied her.
    Emergency evacuation under way. Proceed to your designated evac area ….
    She ran as fast as she could down the escape route she had set up more than a month before. She wasn't in the best shape any longer, even though she had made certain to exercise every day. It didn't matter. She couldn't run as fast as she used to.
    She wondered if that would make a difference. Maybe she should have gone to her designated evac area.
    As if to mock her, the androgynous voice was telling her:
    … Do not double back. Go directly to your designated evac area. The station will shut down entirely in…five…minutes.
    “Shut up,” she whispered, using precious breath.
    She skidded around the last corner, putting out a hand to catch herself, then headed to the last remaining ship.
    It wasn't quite a single ship and it wasn't quite a skip. It was a modified cruiser, one she had designed herself and parked on the station when she first arrived months ago.
    She reached into her pocket, clicked the ship's remote, and ordered it to start, hoping the station's systems did not prevent the remote access. She had set them up so that they wouldn't, but everything changed in an emergency.
    … Do not finish your work. Do not bring your work. Once life tags move out of an area, that area will seal off ….
    If she survived this, she would be hearing that stupid voice in her sleep. Small price, she supposed.
    The doors were open to the docking area. The stupid voice was lying about everything being sealed off.
    Well, not lying exactly. Unable to cope with directions Squishy had programmed long ago. She wanted her ship, not some designated evac vessel that she couldn't control. She hadn't even checked her dedicated evac vessel for supplies and provisions, although she made sure her cruiser was well stocked.
    … The station will shut down entirely in…three…minutes.
    She ran up the ramp. The door to the ship, which she had rechristened the Dane in a fit of whimsy, stood open. She hurried inside, slammed the lock, shot through the airlock and into the ship itself.
    Only two meters to the command chair, and she crossed those faster than she had run through the corridors. She slammed her open palm on the controls, recited the Old Earth Standard nonsense poem she had learned in the last year, and the controls came on.
    Then she hit the preprogrammed escape plan and the ship roared into life. It rose and headed toward the docking doors faster than they were opening.
    She cursed and hoped there was some kind of failsafe for those doors,